Princess
by RedMonocle
Summary: Beylke was the fairest in the Fatherland. By extension, her imaginary friend Duchess was the most beautiful figment ever created. And no one could ever make Duchess believe she deserved anything less. Angst. Oneshot. COMPLETE.


**A/N:**

**I lost the rough draft of this a while ago, so I was planning to upload this much sooner than now. But regardless, it's here now, if anyone cares to read about Duchess. I don't know, I've always thought she was a pretty neat-looking character, even if she was a bitch and a half. I was surprised to see close to no one had written much about her, so I put this here because, why not? This headcanon had been floating around in my head for quite awhile, so why not share it?**

**Story warnings: mentions of force-feeding and allusions to the Holocaust. **

**And also, as I must point out, Duchess and Frankie belong to Craig McCracken. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy.**

**-Reddie**

* * *

I was imagined on May 3 some long forgotten year ago. My creator was the Regal Princess Beylke Sniegowski, and she was truly the most beautiful girl anyone would ever know, inside and out.

That is why I, the Royal Duchess Diamond Persnickety, must be the most beautiful thing ever imagined.

* * *

She told me so, and Beylke never lied. We used to play a game called "Princess" with the mirror in the foyer of our home. It was a back-and-forth compliment recital, a ritual of praising one another's beauty.

"Who is the fairest girl in the Fatherland?" She'd ask.

"You are, Princess!" I'd reply happily.

"And that's why you're the fairest figment ever thought, dear Duchess!" she'd beam.

Then we'd smile and curtsy to one another, always speaking the last line of our game at the same time.

"Your Majesty. The First, Last, and Only!"

She made it very clear that I held a special place in her heart and mind. When the nanny laughed at me, when the cook laughed at me, and even when her friends laughed at me and called me "atrocious" and "disgusting", she would still say I was the most beautiful imaginary friend in existence. One time, when I was feeling really awful about myself, she made a point to get mad at me for simply suggesting I was not as stunning as she thought I was.

She barked, "You _are_ beautiful, Duchess! Don't you dare to say otherwise!"

"But, Princess—"

"No! No buts! " With narrowed eyes, she asked me softly, "Now, who's the most beautiful girl in the Fatherland?"

"You are, Your Majesty." I had to bite my lip to keep from adding, "but I'm not as beautiful as you, and I never will be."

"Then by default, anything that is a part of me must be beautiful too!" She reached up and took one of my manicured hands into her own before resting my palm atop her head. "You're not just my friend, Duchess. You're connected to me by my thoughts, my imagination, my head. You're part of me too." She moved my hand to her chest. With closed eyes and a smile, she repeated, "you're part of me too."

She made it crystal clear, and so, from then on, I never paid the cook, the nanny, nor her former friends any mind ever again. When she spat venom, so did I. When she retracted from others, so did I. We were bound to each other like that.

"I'm a _princess_! I deserve _better_." She used to tell me as we helped each other put on our make-up. "I deserve it all."

If she did, then so do I.

* * *

After a point, people started calling Beylke cruel, stupid, senseless, all sorts of horrible, unbeautiful words. But I never believed them, because they never knew her like I did.

It was plain enough for anyone to realize how loving she truly was, in the way she comforted me when I cried, in the way she spoke to me by her night light, in the way she held my hand a little more tightly when I got nervous heading into a crowd. Anyone could realize how sweet she truly was from the way she'd apply my make-up with the gentlest hand, the way she tucked me in with the utmost care.

She was absolutely perfect, and anyone who thought otherwise of her was wrong beyond belief.

* * *

I remember I was across the table from her one morning, watching from the window of her room as the Jackboot soldiers marched in the streets below. We'd have our tea parties without a care in the world for them, toasting to our health and everlasting friendship.

Then, when I woke up the next morning, she was gone.

Her dresser had been smashed, and all of her clothes and broken drawers were scattered and piled on the ground. The window I looked out yesterday was shattered, allowing unwanted cold morning air to seep in.

When I saw that her jewelry box was gone, I panicked.

"Princess?" I called, sitting up tensely, awaiting a faint reply.

No reply came.

Worried, I threw the silk covers off and sprang away from bed, bursting out into the hall. Everything here too—the vase, the paintings, the statuettes—was thrown into disarray. My feet began to stutter into a run, and I staggered in my steps because I was so unused to moving so quickly without my heels.

Finally, I found myself in the foyer.

In front of the pile that used to be the mirror, I fell to my knees. My trembling sallow fingers reached out for a shard of silvered glass. All I saw in that shard was my own face alone, not next to hers. But I refused to let myself believe that I was all alone.

"Princess!" I hollered again and again, "Princess!" I shouted until my voice went hoarse. But my cries never brought her back to me.

I haven't seen her since.

* * *

How I ended up at Foster's, well, that whole event was a blur. I tend to forget such horrible things because I deserve better than to remember them.

I can tell you that British soldiers came for me though.

They rallied millions of other lost imaginary friends into the streets, gave them food and let them ride in their tanks. I myself was starving, as I hadn't had much to eat for weeks after I finished all the food left in the house, but I refused to accept something as meager as _canned rations_. It was disgusting.

I deserved better. Princess would've thought so.

Force-feeding took place some point after they came inside the mansion. Then they coerced me into the tank, then onto the boat, then off the boat, then finally, from the bus into Foster's. I had never wept more bitterly than I did then.

I didn't belong here. I belonged back in Beylke's room, having tea parties and playing dress-up. I belonged back in the foyer playing "Princess". I belonged next to her and only her: the beautiful wonderful girl who I refused to believe was dead like everyone else was saying she was.

And yet here I was, amongst the filthy wretched refugees. What else could I do, except live on and prove her existence through me?

* * *

I grew to accept my room, my house, the food, and even the imaginary friends around me. These were all vital to my existence, but nothing more than stepping stones I'd use to live on. I cared for no one except myself, as Princess had once cared for me.

Everyone thought I was cruel?

Everyone thought I was ugly?

Frankie said through grit teeth, "Here, I'd like to introduce you to Duchess!"

"Ahem." I cleared my throat. I deserved better than a nickname.

"Ugh, her Royal Duchess Diamond Persnickety."

I'd let it be. They didn't know me or my princess. And in my world, that would always be the only thing that ever mattered.

I quipped, "The first, last, and only."

"Thank goodness." She muttered.

Closing my eyes and sighing in irritation, I replied softly, "Indeed."


End file.
